Chapter 6: The Sanitarium Trail
The morning fog burned off into a harsh, glaring autumn sunlight by the time Marcus Vance pulled his battered sedan into the gravel turnaround of the Pinecrest Medical Sanitarium. The facility sat on the edge of the county line, a sprawling brick complex surrounded by manicured lawns and high iron security fences that looked more like a minimum-security prison than a wellness retreat. This was where Dr. Sterling kept his private patients—the ones whose families preferred them out of sight, out of mind, and legally deceased.
I sat in the passenger seat, pulling the collar of my black suit jacket up against the chill. "Dr. Sterling is on the board of Brenda's foundation," I said, tapping the folder Marcus had handed me during the drive. "He signed the death certificate at two o'clock yesterday afternoon, and by three, Clara was in the family plot."
"And according to the county coroner's log, the body was cremated at the municipal facility at five," Marcus added, shifting the car into park. "Except it wasn't. Because you pulled your daughter out of the ground."
"Brenda wanted the estate transferred before the probate court opened on Monday," I said, pushing the car door open. "The foundation holds the deeds to every commercial property I built. If I don't stop the transfer, she legally owns everything by sunset tomorrow."
We walked past the manicured flower beds into the sterile white lobby. A young receptionist with immaculate hair looked up from her terminal, her smile practiced and cold. "Good morning. Visiting hours begin at noon. Do you have an appointment?"
"Tell Dr. Sterling that Arthur Sterling is here," I said, leaning both hands on the front desk. I didn't raise my voice, but the deadness in my tone made the receptionist hesitate. "Tell him we're here to discuss the medical waste discrepancy from room four-zero-two."
The receptionist's fingers hovered over her keyboard. She reached for the intercom, but before she could press the button, a side door swung open and Dr. Sterling stepped out, wearing a crisp white lab coat over a tailored charcoal suit. His silver hair was combed straight back, and his wire-rimmed glasses caught the fluorescent glare. He froze when he saw me, his expression shifting from mild irritation to calculated professional mask in a fraction of a second.
"Arthur," Sterling said, stepping forward with his hand extended as if we were meeting at a country club brunch. "I was deeply saddened to hear about Clara's sudden relapse. Brenda has been inconsolable."
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I didn't take his hand. I let my arm hang at my side, my fingers curling into a fist inside my pocket. "Cut the act, Sterling. Clara is alive. I pulled her out of the dirt myself."
Sterling's hand dropped slowly to his side. The color drained from his face, but he didn't blink. "You're overwrought, Arthur. Grief makes men imagine terrible things. Perhaps you should let me prescribe something for your nerves—the same dosage we used for Clara."
